


Because You Want This

by deklava



Series: The Man Who Beat Sherlock [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:33:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4904011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The policeman shifts in his leather bindings and takes a deep breath, catching it with a gasp as the Man’s signature cologne overcomes his senses. <i>Why am I here?</i></p><p>“Because you want this,” Ian says simply. </p><p>Lestrade is sure he didn’t speak out loud, but then again, Adler knows everything. Just like Sherlock, only a lot more terrifying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwoWhovianHearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoWhovianHearts/gifts), [ButterscotchCandybatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterscotchCandybatch/gifts), [deby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deby/gifts).



Lestrade closes his eyes, but the candlelight in the room is so bright that he can still see Ian Adler’s shadow approach, darkening his vision even more. That was probably the point, he thinks. There’s no way he can retreat.

The policeman shifts in his leather bindings and takes a deep breath, catching it with a gasp as the Man’s signature cologne overcomes his senses.

_Why am I here?_

“Because you want this,” Ian says simply.

Lestrade is sure he didn’t speak out loud, but then again, Adler knows everything. Just like Sherlock, only a lot more terrifying.

As he feels soft gloved hands slide up and down his spread, trembling thighs, he blurts, “Is there anything you don’t know?”

“Not where you’re concerned.”

No, of course not. And that’s a big part of why Lestrade comes here every two weeks. For a man in his position at Scotland Yard, it’s a sheer relief to just submit to someone who knows what he needs without needing to blurt out a million useless questions first.

Skilled fingers trace the flared base of the dildo buried deep within him. Lestrade squirms, but there’s no relief. A snug leather cock ring grips him, letting him feel everything but denying him the ability to do anything about it.

“I know what you’re doing,” Lestrade says shakily as he squirms. “You- oh, my God -you want to make me tell you the name of that blonde the Commissioner’s been fucking, but I-”

A sharp slap to his thigh, followed by a gentler bite to his knee, cuts him off. “I already know that, Detective Inspector. Her name is Natasha. And she’s doing what failed Russian models do best. Especially those who used to be men.”

Lestrade’s jaw drops. _Wow._

“All I want,” Ian says, “is for you to relax. Otherwise you’ll be in no shape for what I have planned for you tonight.”

The dildo slides out, but it’s replaced by long, accurate fingers before the policeman can register its loss. Lestrade sobs behind clenched teeth as Ian Adler strokes his prostate as no one else can, tormenting the little gland that turns him into a leaking, shaking mess.

“Don’t stop, oh God, don’t stop,” he begs. Now three fingers are inside his stretched and heated hole, and there’s no fumbling or pain, just a skilled and determined domination of his entire body. Pleasure and pain are converging, derailing his will. Lestrade had always prided himself on his mental acumen, but now he can’t fucking think straight.

_Bliss._

“I don’t intend to,” Ian assures him. “Not when you look so glorious like this. A true work of art.”

Lestrade feels those long, slick fingers slide out slowly. Heart pounding wildly, he arches his back, realising that he’s about to get something else he needs badly. He hasn’t gotten this in ages, so when he feels the heat of Ian’s body towering over him, followed by a firm grip on his hips, he actually bursts into tears.

“Hush, pet,” Ian soothes just before shoving into him at the perfect speed and angle. When Lestrade screams, the Man leans in, lips brushing across his before biting his lower lip. “You’ve earned this reward.”

It’s more than a reward. It’s a fucking _salvation_.

Ian thrusts again and again, waiting until Lestrade is on the brink of madness before unsnapping the cock ring. The policeman’s nails dig bloody half-moons into his palms as he comes, the ecstasy and relief so intense that his voice locks up in his throat. Ian fucks him through it all, so deep and relentless that Lestrade will be feeling it for days afterward.

When he finally slumps in his restraints, Lestrade opens his eyes. Ian Adler is gazing down at him, regal and possessive.

“I'm not done yet, Detective Inspector,” he says, softly. Lestrade shudders in joy and dread, and wonders if he’s finally encountered his first addiction.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For TwoWhovian Hearts, ButterscotchCandyBatch, and deby, who wanted more!

_Two months earlier_

Greg Lestrade had been thinking about this for awhile now, but never thought he’d ever go through with it.

Yet here he is, in a Belgravia townhouse, paying for the privilege of getting his arse kicked.

In retrospect, he blames Sherlock. The consulting detective has been a little less smug lately, and when he does bait Donovan, it’s with one-tenth of his usual malice. Sherlock actually seems _happy_ about something that doesn’t involve combustible materials or day-old corpses, and Lestrade wants in. He can’t remember the last time he went home without a headache or to bed without liquor on his breath.

Sherlock gave him a card and Lestrade made the call. It took a while, because the very concept of BDSM made him hesitate. He wasn’t afraid of pain- years of manhandling violent criminals had ensured that- but never tried such games, unless that uni girlfriend who liked spanking counted. The thought of being punished like a schoolboy also turned him off.

“It’s not like that, Lestrade,” Sherlock had said. “No schoolboy games unless that’s your fancy.”

“It certainly isn’t.”

“Then tell him what you want.” The detective paused, expression softening. “Or let him tell you what you need. That’s even better.”

Now the moment has arrived and Lestrade hopes to God that Ian Adler is everything Sherlock claims. His liver probably can’t take much more.

Lestrade feels the collared male slave’s eyes on him as he strips in the anteroom. The young man’s semi-nudity makes him feel more vulnerable, so he ignores him and concentrates on folding his clothes. He’s been naked around other blokes before, in the change rooms at the gym and of course the doctor’s office, but this situation is decidedly different.

Ian Adler hasn’t appeared yet, and that makes Lestrade nervous. They spoke on the phone after the deposit was received and appointment scheduled. He’s been on the Man’s website and seen that his future tormentor is tall, slender and pale, with wavy black hair that _can’t_ be natural. Quite seductive, actually, which is a shame because Lestrade is not interested in men.

Not that he’s aware of, anyway. And even if he were, this isn’t about sex, it’s about his fucking sanity.

Footsteps pad on the thick Moroccan rug behind him, interrupting his thoughts. The slave’s eyes widen and he drops to his knees. Lestrade wonders if he should turn around.

“Good evening, Mr. Lestrade.”

The policeman doesn’t move. “Mr. Adler.”

“Turn around, please.”

Slowly Lestrade obeys. And does a double take.

He tells himself that most people surely do the same when they first meet Ian Adler. Europe’s most celebrated professional dominant is beautiful in a way that few men are, with smooth skin, cool grey eyes, and black hair that rests on his shoulders in glossy waves. Instead of a tacky leather ensemble, he wears a crisply pressed black suit and open silk shirt the colour of blood. His hands, empty of the whips and paddles Lestrade anticipated, rest in his pockets.

The Man may not look especially formidable, but Lestrade is not fooled. Sherlock told him how Ian Adler once faced death at Moriarty’s hands and remained defiant, even breaking Sebastian Moran’s nose moments before his throat was due to be slit.

Ian smiles at the scrutiny. “Am I what you expected, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade swallows. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

“And ultimately, it doesn’t matter what I look like, does it? You’re here because of what you need.” Ian’s eyes travel over his naked form: Lestrade swears he can feel their progress. “Peace of mind and a good night’s sleep.”

“Yeah. And I’m wondering how you’re going to give it to me.”

Ian steps closer. His smile would do an angel proud.

“Like this,” he says, just before steel cuffs snap around Lestrade’s wrists.

*****

When they spoke on the phone, Lestrade had been blunt. He had never tried BDSM, nor had he fantasised about it, but he wasn’t averse to trying anything that would take him out of himself. What he wanted was to give up control, to stop making decisions that had so much riding in the balance.

Ian Adler had been so polite then, but there is nothing polite about the way he now grabs a fistful of Lestrade’s hair and marches him to the center of the room. The policeman doesn’t fight back, but he does yell.

_“Fuck!”_

Ian attaches the end of a ceiling chain to the link between Lestrade’s cuffs. When he nods at his slave, the youth touches a button built into the wall’s elaborate woodwork. Something clicks and whirrs, and then Lestrade’s arms are slowly being lifted over his head. It stops when the stretch is about to turn uncomfortable.

He knows Adler would honour his safeword if he blurted it now, but he doesn’t. The initial surprise and indignation have passed, and now he’s breathless, wanting to see what happens next.

Ian’s expression has changed to stern and faintly annoyed. He slides a leather-gloved hand from Lestrade’s bare shoulder to his throat. “Never swear at me again, Detective Inspector,” he says, voice low.

Lestrade goes still. He swallows, feeling his throat convulse against Ian’s fingers. The grip isn’t strong enough to choke, but its firmness indicates that Adler isn’t playing around. He closes his eyes, exhales slowly through his nose, and whispers, “Sorry.”

A gloved thumb caresses his carotid. “What I want to hear is _Sorry, Sir_. ‘Master’ is also acceptable, but I don’t think you’re there yet.”

Lestrade knows he has a lot to learn. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

A smile brightens Ian Adler’s face once again. “Much better.”

The policeman feels a glow of pleasure warm his insides. He remembers easier days, when he was at the police academy, hating his instructors for ordering him around. Back then they were the ‘bad guys’ to him  because he had no fucking clue what really awaited him once he became a copper. Career-wise, Greg Lestrade is past the point where “I’m sorry, Sir” can fix much of anything. Here it’s different. Here the rules appear to make sense.

Sort of.

Adler regards him for a moment. Then he reaches out and traces a fingertip around Lestrade’s nipple. The policeman gasps and the nub immediately hardens. When Ian does the same thing with the other one, he bites his lip and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He feels arousal stir.

“Are you uncomfortable, Mr. Lestrade?”

“Yes- no... I don’t know.”

“Another man is stroking you rather intimately, and you told me you prefer women. If it’s troubling you, I can stop.”

It isn’t troubling him, and they both know it. Lestrade lowers his chin to his chest. “It’s fine.”

Ian arches an eyebrow. Then he takes one rigid nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pinches it. Hard.

Lestrade doesn’t swear again, but he does yell. He even stamps one foot, but Adler doesn’t let go. He simply watches his captive writhe.

“You can always use your safeword.”

For a fleeting instant Lestrade entertains the thought of kicking his tormentor in the balls and calling everything to a halt. His nipple hurts like hell, but he can’t bring himself to stop, not if this could all end in his peace of mind somehow.

Prompted by something he can’t put a name to, he corrects his mistake. “I’m sorry. I mean, it’s fine, Sir. Sorry for the disrespect.”

Ian’s fingers fall away. “You are forgiven. Don’t expect leniency because you are a novice, Mr. Lestrade. You won’t get where you need to be.”

Lestrade chokes back a sob, surprised by the flood of emotion. He’s in turmoil now. teetering between sincere submission and the last vestiges of retained control. When Adler touches his face in a sudden gesture of empathy, he exclaims, “Please take me there, Sir.”

“Shh. All right.” Ian nods to his slave, who touches the wall button again. The motor stirs back to life and the chain lowers. Lestrade wobbles as he tries to regain his footing, so Adler grasps his arm.

“Come with me.”

******

They’re in a shadowy, high-ceilinged room whose only adornment is the huge king bed and the small tables that flank it. Except for the black-carpeted floor, everything is the colour of blood: the wallpaper, the pillows, the thick duvet. Lestrade is still taking it all in as Ian Adler undoes his handcuffs and nods toward the bed.

"On your knees. Hands behind your back."

Lestrade obeys, heart racing. Why a bedroom? Is Adler going to up the sexual aspect of this session? The ever-present slave apparently thinks so: his eyes are wider and his lips part, revealing the tip of his tongue.

_I can always say no....._

Ian turns away from one of the night tables and steps to the side of the bed. He shows Lestrade what’s in his hands: a length of silk rope and a sleek leather riding crop. After giving the older man enough time to take them both in, he steps behind Lestrade, slides the rope around his wrists, and pulls it tight. Although the binding is not painful, it’s snug enough to let Lestrade know that unless he calls safeword, it’s not coming off.

“Pretty,” Ian murmurs, touching his warm lips to his captive’s shoulder. Then he slides his fingers through Lestrade’s hair and pulls sharply backward, forcing their eyes to meet. “Have you ever been told how delicious you look tied up?”

Those eyes are so hypnotic that Lestrade feels dizzy. “N-no, Sir.”

“I’m surprised that you haven’t tried this before. You clearly like it.” Adler slides the crop into his belt and nods downward. Lestrade follows his gaze and sees that his cock is even harder now and getting wet at the tip. He flushes.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Detective Inspector.” He bends down and brings their lips briefly together. It’s not a kiss so much as a claim, and Lestrade relaxes.

“Lie down. On your front.”

The policeman sinks onto the mattress face-first, hissing as his erection brushes against the brocaded duvet. He feels the urge to rut against it, but Ian is one step ahead, as usual. The Man slides his hand under Lestrade’s belly, grips his cock, and gives a warning squeeze. Lestrade yelps and kicks up involuntarily.

“Do not come until I give you permission. Understood?”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

“Good. You nearly kicked me just now, and I’m afraid that means punishment.” Ian slaps the crop against his palm. “Ten strokes with the crop. If you fail to thank me after each one, I’ll double it.”

Lestrade doesn’t doubt that he will. “Yes, Sir.” He hopes he can take this.

He feels the smooth leather of the crop trace small circles over each of his buttocks. Then, with no further warning, Ian strikes.

Pain explodes in Lestrade’s left arse cheek, making him cry out. He digs his teeth into the bedclothes to muffle the noise, which seems to amuse his tormentor.

“No one can hear you anyway. Scream all you like.”

“Y-yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Very good.”

Ian hits him again. Lestrade presses his face into the bed, breathing through the pain and stammering out another thanks. Halfway into the punishment, the bursts of white-hot agony heighten into a perverse pleasure that makes him squirm against the mattress.  The blows still hurt, but now they’re heightening his arousal. His cries of “Thank you, Sir” become more energetic and enthusiastic, and orgasm creeps dangerously closer.

After the tenth strike, it stops. Ian removes his gloves and caresses his bright red handiwork. “Beautiful,” he says. “You took that very well. I think you deserve a reward.”

Lestrade perks up, chasing away the endorphin haze. His bottom throbs, but the ache is going straight to his cock. Face awash with sweat, he peers over his shoulder and sees Adler grab the collared slave boy by the back of the neck and march him over to the bed.

“You know what I want you to do, Jeremy.”

“Oh, yes, Sir.”

Before Lestrade can ask what’s happening, he feels strong hands on his arse cheeks, spreading him open. Then teeth scrape delicately across the puckered ring of his hole. He jerks at the sensation, and when cool breath blows against his opening, following by brushing from a hot tongue, all he can do is cry, “Oh, my God.”

He’d never dreamed of letting a woman do this to him, never mind a man, but he doesn’t yell, “Stop!” He can’t, not when every stab of the young man’s tongue into his heated body makes him want to scream and come. It feels so fucking filthy and good that all pride flies out the window and he starts sobbing and begging.

Adler’s voice is strangely thick. “Get your tongue in deeper.”

Damned if the young bastard doesn’t do just that, licking a stripe up Lestrade’s balls before practically tongue-fucking him. Lestrade sounds truly wrecked as he pushes back against the other man’s face. The movement makes his cock quiver and a dangerous tightening go on in his balls.

Adler reaches underneath his clenching belly and grazes his cock with maddening delicacy. “Do you want to come, Mr. Lestrade?”

“Fu-fuck!” Lestrade whimpers. He’s hyper-sensitive, on edge, and on the verge of going insane. “Yes, Sir, fuck, please!”

“A few more minutes, I think. Jeremy, continue.”

Lestrade feels Ian shift position. One strong hand plants in the middle of his back, anchoring him in place, while the other snakes up around his throat. He’s just able to breathe but completely immobilised.

Lestrade gives a strangled moan as the slave, Jeremy, continues to fuck him with swift tongue movements. He’s struggling not to come, knows he can’t come without permission, but if this lasts much longer the orgasm denial will turn into its own level of pain. His bare feet dig into the duvet and his stomach muscles contract as wave after wave of combined agony and ecstasy crash through him.

“Please, Sir,” he begs.

Ian Adler suddenly lets him go and rolls him over, onto his back. Lestrade’s face is red and wet with saliva and tears. His belly and cock are equally messy, with precome smeared everywhere. Before he can say anything else, Adler leaps onto the bed and straddles his chest, placing his crotch inches from Lestrade’s face.

“Jeremy,” he says as he gazes down at his captive with a feral grin.

Jeremy wraps his hand around Lestrade’s cock and strokes it, fingers hot and slippery on the hard shaft. At the same time, Ian grabs the bound man’s head and pulls it between his legs.

Lestrade has never done this before, but instinct kicks in and he does his best, the novelty of the experience exciting him beyond belief. Ian’s still fully clothed but Lestrade’s lips seek and find the hard shaft stirring behind the expensive wool trousers. He mouths the entire length, moaning deep in his throat as Jeremy works his cock and Ian holds his hair in a death grip.

“Very nice,” the Man approves. “You must come to see me again. I’d love to see what you can do when all these clothes aren’t in the way.” He pauses, hips jerking as Lestrade grazes a sensitive spot. “You can come now.”

Lestrade’s moans escalate into a guttural cry as he comes. He feels his release splatter all over his belly, and knows that a good quantity ended up on Jeremy’s fingers and Adler’s suit too. Jeremy works him until every last drop is out, and Lestrade is both boneless and void of thought. As Ian releases his head so he can sag weakly against the mattress, he feels so sore and blissed-out that he wishes he could stay here forever.

Ian rolls him gently onto his side and cuts away the rope. Lestrade pulls his arms back in front of his chest and trembles lightly all over. Closing his eyes, he lies there as Jeremy washes him clean with a warm flannel and sandalwood-scented water. Then the duvet is gathered around his tired, naked form.

“It’s all right,” Adler murmurs, sitting on the edge of the mattress and touching his shoulder. “You’re all right.  You did so well.”

Lestrade cracks one eye open and manages a shaky smile. “Thank you.” He can see that Ian is still hard in his trousers, and reckons that Jeremy or another slave will take care of that later. He’s surprised at how jealous that thought makes him.

“I’d like to see you again. Next week, perhaps?”

Regret pierces Lestrade’s contented fog. “I want that. Christ- a lot. But I can’t afford it.”

The mattress creaks as Adler settles onto the bed behind him and clasps him in a strong embrace. The policeman can feel the Man’s erection poking against his hip and instinctively presses against it.

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement that doesn’t involve money, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade isn’t sure what such an agreement would consist of, but doesn’t worry about it now. He just wants to sleep in peace for the first time in years. So he does.

******

When he leaves Ian Adler’s townhouse hours later, Lestrade is completely calm. His arse still throbs from the cropping, but the pain chases away intrusive thoughts. Exhaustion lingers, so he knows he will sleep well tonight.

He also has another appointment scheduled for a week from today. True to his word, Adler didn’t want money for the next session. As they said their farewells in the entrance hall, the Man commented casually that he was after something more valuable to him.

“Like what?” Lestrade had asked, half-joking. “My soul?”

Ian smiled. “Your secrets.”

That was all he would say. Lestrade now wonders if his soul would have been a less expensive tribute, but isn’t exactly surprised to realise that he doesn’t care.

  
  



End file.
